


every streetlight a reminder

by renaissance



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Clubbing, F/F, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 04:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14633985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: August, 1998. Padma tries to distract herself, but in the end everything comes back to the war.





	every streetlight a reminder

**Author's Note:**

> here's an entry for the drarry discord's rarepair bingo! i've gone for a bingo down the second column: glitter - clubbing - mistaken identity [and a little bit of hand holding] - nightswimming - sharing ice cream.
> 
> in the end, i tried to fit all of these into one fic. it was a real challenge! out of necessity, i took "nightswimming" a little loosely. i've used a line from the r.e.m. song of the same name as the title, and in general let the song inspire the general tone of this piece. i will leave it to the mods' discretion whether or not that counts.

In the dying days of summer and in the dying annals of the century, Padma puts on her warpaint.

That would have meant something very different just four months ago—Hogwarts was at war and death still haunted the school’s corridors. Soon it’ll be the first of September and Padma will return to Hogwarts and she will not think about the warpaint she wore to roam those same corridors with her wand at hand and Death Eaters at her back.

Tonight she puts on her warpaint by brushing glitter across her eyelids and her lips, encrusting herself in gold and jewels like a museum piece. She’s at Anthony’s flat in London and they’re both crowded about the bathroom sink, turning themselves into different people. They’re tired of mourning, and this is their last chance to do something irresponsible before they swap the silver glitter sticking to their fingers for glittering silver badges pinned to their robes.

There’s an old joke about Ravenclaws never going out at night. Padma doesn’t remember the punchline.

Anthony chooses a Muggle nightclub almost at random and they take the Muggle tube to get there; all part of the experience. The place is dimly lit but spotlights glint across the sea of bodies, _Pure Morning_ is blaring when they walk in, and Padma knows immediately that, yes, this is the perfect place to come to forget.

They manage to stick together for the first few songs and drinks, fingers linked through the crowd like swimming against the tide. Eventually, though, Padma is set adrift to float towards the nearest island of security. She turns in time to the music and spins straight into the arms of a taller girl, face obscured by the dark of the nightclub and the buzz of the booze that’s killing Padma’s ability to focus her eyes for more than a second at a time.

“Sorry,” Padma says, “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” the girl says. “Want to dance?”

Padma answers by putting her arms on the girl’s waist. They both have glitter on their faces. Padma thinks, _What do you have to hide?_ But out of courtesy she doesn’t ask, just pulls her dance partner deeper into the midst of the dancing masses and moves closer, lets her know. And wouldn’t that be the better way to forget? All these milestones she bypassed while she was fighting. It’s high time she tried loving.

The club is playing _Push It_ and Padma’s dance partner sings along under her breath— _make the beat go harder_ —and when the song’s over they’re wrung out and sweaty and Padma sees a smudge of her lipstick and glitter on the other girl’s neck. Taking the girl’s hand, Padma leads them towards the bar for more drinks.

Anthony’s at the bar and he’s surrounded by girls. Curious. He waves Padma over and tipsily says, “Look who I found!”

There’s more light here and Padma can make out his companions as Daphne, Millicent, Tracey, familiar faces from across the other side of a social divide that the war made harder to bridge, and a nightclub made easier. Daphne raises a hand to wave someone over—Pansy, Padma presumes; the concertmaster of their quartet. So it’s a shock when Padma’s dance partner waves back, and now in the glow of the bar’s lighting Padma can see that it’s Pansy, and they’re still holding hands, and Padma wants the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

Pansy looks at Padma, wide-eyed surprised. Padma looks back and tries to keep that same expression off her face. Pansy relaxes, shrugs.

“You’ve been busy,” Tracey says to Pansy, and Pansy doesn’t let go of Padma’s hand to give Tracey the middle finger with her other.

Apparently, it really is that easy.

Their group swells to six and Anthony doesn’t seem to mind being the odd man out as they take back to the dancefloor, drink until they’re dizzy, dance with their eyes closed and don’t mention the war. They stay until the club closes and then they’re out on the street, and if there was ever a boundary between the rebels and the collaborators, it’s beginning to dissolve.

The sky is midnight navy and no stars, too many city lights for them to see stars. The street blinks in white gold and red and red to green at the crossing, colours blurring together like spells flying through the air. At the green light Padma closes her eyes. There had been another green light, four months ago, hurled from the wand of a masked Death Eater and narrowly passing by Padma’s shoulder as she ducked out of its path and lived, _lived_.

“Are you coming?” Pansy still has her hand and pulls her across the road. Padma doesn’t imagine she would’ve made it otherwise. The light blinks red.

They stop at a 24-hour corner shop and buy water and iced coffee to keep them awake and sober them up. Pansy also gets an ice cream, which she licks at a torturously slow pace, for no apparent reason other than to leave Padma immensely frustrated. When it’s the two of them walking behind the others, Padma takes the ice cream by the stick right out of Pansy’s hands and takes a bite out of it, holding Pansy’s gaze the entire time. Pansy goes as red as the streetlights.

They go back to Anthony’s flat—it’s closest—and open all the windows, cool night air and music humming low from the radio. Padma excuses herself to the bathroom and Pansy knows to follow. She presses Padma back against the glitter-strewn sink and they kiss until their lipstick is the same colour.

“Are you coming back?” Padma asks Pansy. The sink is digging into the small of her back; Pansy’s fingers are drawing circles on her shoulders.

Pansy shrugs. “If they’ll have me.”

Padma doesn’t sympathise with the plight of someone who knows she’s going to be excommunicated for all the right reasons, but she’s also willing to give second chances.

“Put on your warpaint and face it.”

Pansy kisses her again, and it doesn’t feel like fraternising with the enemy. It feels like the war did this to both of them from either side and neither of them came out any better than the other, and now this is all they can do about it. Not forgetting—coping.


End file.
